A Rendezvous in Paris
by Madeinchina26
Summary: Zach Goode knew who he was. A thief. A con artist. Nothing was unattainable to him. But what happens when the girl he steals won't be his? &what's w/ all the weird dreams he's having? In a world where Zach thought he knew everything, now he knows nothing.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Carter owns the Gallagher Series. I own this story/plot. No copywriting here.**

**A/N: So this idea was bouncing around in my head for awhile. I'm not the best writer, but I was hoping that somehow my words would turn into a story. R&R :]**

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**~Prologue~**

**Morgan farm in Nebraska **

**July 1, 2008 **

_Cammie,_

_I'm not real sure how to begin this. If you're reading this right now, then it's clear that I've failed you. I've failed us. There's so much I've hid from you. So much I couldn't_ _tell you. But one of the few things I _can _say and really need you to know is that I'm sorry. I'd be on my knees, groveling at your feet right now, and begging for your forgiveness if I knew that would work. But I'm sure you're fed up with my apologies since I just keep doing the same shit again and again. I'm sorry for that too._

_I also apologize for every little annoying thing I've ever done. Like leaving the toilet seat up. Or eating the last Oreo. Or eating the whole box of Oreos. And I'm _really_ sorry for killing your goldfish. That other day, you weren't seeing things when you thought that Flounder looked fatter. What you saw was Flounderette, a pregnant fish that I purchased from Walmart. Though by now, you've probably realized that._

_But on a more serious note, I'm truly sorry for leaving you on your birthday. It breaks my heart that you had to wake up alone. I'm especially sorry that I lied to you. I lied about my work. I lied about my friends. I lied about everything. But, Gallagher Girl, _please _know that whenever I was with you that was _me_. All of it was me. Even at times when I didn't know who I was, you've always seen through my bullshit. And I thank you for that._

_However, as much as I want to take all of that back—the lies and the secrecy—I can't. I have a duty to my country. I can't tell you what I do. And I can't tell you where I am. Just know that I'm ok and am missing you in my arms._

_I'll be back for you. I promise. One day you'll see me again. If I can't make it back to the States for some reason, I'll be in Paris, a year from the date on this letter. You've always wanted to go there, right?_

_I love you. So much. I know I've never really shared with you how I felt. I know I've only said "I love you" once a long time ago. I wish I could spin time around so that I could tell you that I loved you every minute of the day. And if that got annoying, I'd tell you at least once a day so then you'd never have to doubt my feelings. Like you probably do now._

_I understand if you want to give up on me. I'd give up on me too. Tell Grant that I didn't mean to put him in this position. Hiding things from you, I mean. I told him to wait until July to give this to you. Don't blame him._

_Please meet me in Paris. I know I should tell you to move on. I know that I'm a horrible fiancé. I know this is selfish. But don't give up on me. I won't give up on you._

_Always yours,_

_Josh_

_P.S. Je t'aime. Toujours._

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**I will be posting the next chapter tommorrow. I'm just tweaking it a little from the original to get the plot moving a little faster. This will be a Zammie story... just reassuring you.**

**Review. They motivate me :]**


	2. This Wasn't My Idea

**Disclaimer: Carter owns the Gallagher Series. I own this story/plot. No copywriting here.**

**A/N: And my tweaking is done :] So although the prologue is important, put it in the back of your head. It'll come back later. Everything I wrote in the letter, I wrote for a reason. The whole story from here on out will be told from Zach's POV****. Also, it's rated T for a reason. I like to swear. And so does Zach. So if language offends you, change it to something else in your head. :]**

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**~Chapter 1~**

_This wasn't my idea. Actually, this was the exact opposite of what this night was supposed to be. It was supposed to be all of us. Together. In the heart of New York City. We were supposed to drop everything for just _one_ night. Just twelve hours. But as I looked around, the only people I heard came from a hundred feet below. So the only thing I could do was pop a squat and wait._

_This wasn't my idea._

_Honestly though, you'd think that I would be the last person out of our group to be up here. But the only ass here was mine, and it was waiting, up high, surrounded by buildings brighter than the starry, summery sky. Up here, atop a city rooftop, with industrial smoke contaminating my lungs and a metal rail denting my ass. I knew they'd bail._

_This wasn't my idea._

"_Hey." A hand touched my shoulder._

"_Hey yourself," I responded with a grin, knowing who the voice belonged to._

_I cocked my head to the right and looked at her, even though it was too dark to make out the features of her face. "Is everyone else a no-show?"_

"_Everyone but you," I pointed to myself, "and me."_

_You and me._

_I liked the sound of that._

_She smiled, sat on the railing, and leaned into me. "I'm surprised you of all people came." Suddenly, she pulled away, thinking she offended me. But I wasn't. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm really glad you're here. You're just the busiest."_

"_I surprised myself." I smirked and wrapped my arm around her. "But out of all the morons that could've showed tonight, I guess it could've been worse."_

_She giggled. So cute. "I've missed this." She leaned back into me, forgetting that we've been ditched. Forgetting that we haven't seen each other in over a year. We happily disappeared into our own bubble as if we were the only two people in New York._

_Like I said, this wasn't my idea._

_But it was _hers_._

_And I loved it._

**.**

**Paris, France**

**Early Morning around Five O'clock**

**July 1, 2011**

"Shit," I mumbled, feeling iron bars grind into my back. My head was pounding, my body was sweating, and overall, I felt like crap. "It was just a dream." With eyes still shut, I scanned through my thoughts, knowing that I only had eight to twelve seconds to retain the dream in my memory.

That annoying girl was in it again. A girl that I hadn't even met in real life. A girl who's face was still a mystery to me.

And I wanted her out of my head.

This wasn't the first time she'd come a-haunting me, a me that I didn't even think was me. I mean, I think the me in my dream was physically me, but he didn't act like me. He was different. With a different personality. And different feelings.

A warped clone of me, I think.

Now that I'd gotten myself so damned confused to a point where I didn't really know who I was (the dream me or the reality me), my attention was brought back to the stiff position I was in. Currently, thin metal bars were pressed into my body from my back shoulders to my ass, marking my skin in a striped pattern.

Oh fuck.

My ass was in prison.

I rubbed my eyes with my right fingers but continued to keep them closed, reluctant to see if I was where I thought I was. And if I was in jail again, there would be no one to bail me out this time.

The boss man had promised me that.

Not wanting to feel the metal on my back anymore, I tried to roll over, but my left wrist was snagged on something. The resistance practically pulled my arm out of its socket, and I couldn't help but to yelp in pain. My now throbbing arm forced me to shake off sleep and face reality.

How badly did I mess up this time?

Please don't be in jail.

Please don't be in jail.

Please don't be in fucking jail.

I was handcuffed to the aforementioned metal bars.

"Shit!" I cried out, yanking on the cuffs, which only increased the pain in my arm. I glanced down at my attire, which consisted of my boxers and—I did a double take—my boxers. "Dammit, Goode! What the hell did you do last night?" And although I'm supposed to be a genius, zilch memories entered to my brain. So since my head wasn't doing much good, I decided to use my eyes.

Squinting (because I had this huge fucking hangover, apparently), I noticed that instead of a musky jail cell, I was facing a row of identical townhouses. Also, the lack of light wasn't because I was in a solid brick room, but because I had woken up just before dawn. And instead of handcuffs—oh wait, they were still metal handcuffs actually. (If they were fuzzy, I'd feel a lot better—a little violated maybe—but better.)

But none of that matter anymore.

Because I wasn't in jail!

I groaned and pulled myself up to a sitting position, trying to ignore the prickling feeling in my arm and the pain in my side caused from an extremely uncomfortable night's sleep. Now that I knew where I wasn't, where was I?

Once again, I used my sharp sense of sight to notice that I was outside on a balcony—a balcony not even fit to hold a child, let alone a grown man such as myself—and although the reason for my poor sleep was answered, my whereabouts weren't. And neither was this hangover.

"C'mon, Goode," I grumbled to myself and pulled on my hair. "You're somewhere in Paris. On the balcony of someone's apartment probably. Now think." The only way I could've lost my memory like this is if I were at a bar. Or someone knocked me unconscious. It couldn't be the latter, though.

No one could beat up this guy.

Plus, if I got into a fight, what was with the boxers? Also, did I mention the head-pounding, palm-sweating hangover? Drinking most definitely was involved.

And then a woman with straight, dark hair popped up into my head.

"That's it, " I told my brain and closed my eyes. "Keep going."

Then I remembered leaving the bar with her, completely wasted, which was something I promised myself I wouldn't do that night.

Dammit.

The memories of last night suddenly came flooding back into my head, all in reverse order. A few minutes before the woman practically dragged me to leave with her, I had put down an empty beer bottle. And before that, I was happily chugging the aforementioned beer. And before that, I was ordering a beer. Or the chick was ordering it for me. Again. And before that, I was drinking my second beer of the night.

Only three beers and my memory went to shit?

No, something else had to happen. That wouldn't even happen to a lightweight fucker.

"The girl," I said to myself in amazement. My brain went back to my first beer when the dark-haired woman dared to sit with me. What was her name? Macey?

In my head, I heard her say, _"Salut! Je m'appelle Macey,"_ and suddenly the hole where I was missing some vital information was filled.

And yup. I was right. Her name was Macey.

I remembered slouching over at the bar like an emo kid, and then she came dancing along, her hair perfectly straight and an outfit dressed to kill. It was obvious that she was trying to seduce me (or any of the other males in that place). On any other night, her antics would've worked, but not _that _night. When she shimmied over to the empty stool next to me, I put my foot on it, clearly stating that the adjacent bar stool was empty for a reason. I wouldn't be an asshole without a purpose. Especially to someone who had an interest in me. But I had a huge job tomorrow (or today since yesterday's tomorrow is today). And I was really fucking nervous. Didn't she notice that I was only there for one drink, and one drink only? Alone? But nothing I did seem to freak her out or disgust her. She even accepted my silence, so I grudgingly allowed her to say her bit because hearing her shrill voice distracted me from my own in my head. And I needed to calm down if I wasnted to succeed tomorrow (or today).

The memory, clear as if it were yesterday (which it was) popped into my head.

_After about half-an-hour of the chick's monologue, she paused. She actually stopped talking. I thought she was going to leave, but I think her silence meant something else: she wanted me to converse back!_

_No._

_I groaned inwardly, but then I happily realized that even though I was fluent in French, she didn't have to know that. And maybe she couldn't speak English. "No hablo... French?" I mumbled stupidly, using a British accent and hoping that would discourage her. "Je suis… from America."_

"_Oh!" she exclaimed. Crap. Maybe I shouldn't have used the word "America". I mean, the French call us Americans americains, so why didn't I think that she was smart enough to know that America is Amerique?_

_Oh yeah, because the bitch didn't know that I didn't want to talk to her, even when I pretended to sound like a caveman._

"_I speak anglais," she paused and held up her index finger and thumb, holding them an inch apart, "un poco." Macey looked at me for a second before cracking up and with a slight Russian accent she spoke, "You are a strange man. You think you can get rid of me that easily? I'm actually fluent in English. You, however, should work on your French. Or Spanish. Or any other languages you like to mix together." _

"_I might just go do that," I told her, ready to leave. Like I already said, I was here to relax before the big job tomorrow and if she wouldn't scram, then I would._

_She stopped me by placing a hand on my shoulder and pushing my back onto the bar stool. Ok, Macey was stronger than she looked. "Oh no! I didn't mean to mock. Let me get you a drink." After noting the beer in my hand, she called for a second one. And then a third._

_And when people order me free drinks, I don't turn them down. No matter what I promise myself._

"_So what's your name?"_

"_Anthony," I lied__ smoothly as the bartender handed her my second beer, and then she flipped her hair in my face, blocking my view of—_

That bitch put something in my beer!

She flipped her hair to drug my drink!

That's why I feel like shit!

Then my genius brain realized something else. The balcony I had used as my bed for the night had to be attached to something. Floating platforms didn't exist. I turned behind me and stood up, moving the handcuff up along one of the poles with me. And that's when I saw a French door with transparent, flowy curtains on the other side. It was _her _door. And it probably led to a bedroom. Where that psycho brunette slept. And kept her drugs.

I went insane.

"Who do you think you are?" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

I didn't care if it was around five a.m.

I didn't care if all of Paris could hear me.

I kicked her door so hard the glass almost broke and started shouting obscenities that probably woke up the entire neighborhood.

Or at least one neighbor.

"Well, I don't know who you're talking to, but most people call me Solomon." I turned to the sound and saw a man standing peacefully on the balcony next-door. He was smiling reassuringly, as if he knew the dilemma I was in.

Well he fucking didn't.

_"Je ne parle pas anglais_," I pretended to be a Frenchman before picking up a flowerpot that sat on the balcony's railing, ready to chuck it at the door. That bitch was getting her ass out here eventually. If I had to break in, so be it.

"So you're not American?"

Damn. He didn't believe me. I should've known that pretending to speak a different language wouldn't work after Macey.

But I couldn't give up yet so I paused before saying, "_Je suis français, monsieur."_ I furrowed my eyebrows, trying to look confused. "_Vous les américains sont stupides_." I forced myself to chuckle, hoping that the guy would think I was making fun of him.

"But didn't you just ask me who I thought I was? In plain English? With an American accent?"

Oops.

"_Je ne sais pas_," I shook my head, even though the man knew I was lying outright. My voice continued to grow as I got angrier, "_Ne vous je parlais pas. Il est cinq heures du matin, monsieur, et je ne pense— _" And then I went into a five minute ramble, trying to find words that sounded really angry to the American ear, even though someone who could speak French would think I was speaking gibberish. I even pulled out some of my French swear words. I _salaud_-ed and _abruti_-ed him the best I could before I ended my beautiful French speech with "—_et j'aime el foie mousseux et les tortues._" I pronounced _tortues _extremely slow, hoping that this American would think that _les tortues_ meant torture, even though in reality, a _tortue _was a turtle.

But what he said next caught me off guard.

Well, first he laughed. Really hard.

And then he revealed, "_Monsieur, je parle français aussi. Je comprends ce que vous dites._"

Oh my God.

Why was this guy such a fucking know-it-all?

"I don't know about shiny liver," he winked at me, knowing exactly what _foie mousseux _meant, "but I do appreciate turtles. _Les tortues sont les meilleurs._"

"Ok, man, you got me. I'm from the fucking States," I growled, defeated. "I'm just not really in a conversational mood right now if you seriously don't get my drift." I threw the flowerpot at the door for demonstration and watched as the whole thing shattered. The flowerpot, I mean, not the door.

As I was beginning to think that the French made their French doors bulletproof, I realized that the guy, Solomon I think, was still talking. So I gave him my full attention and told him, "And I wasn't asking you."

"So you were just asking Paris who it was then?"

"Yeah, something like that."

His amused eyes left my face and observed the handcuff that I was now fiddling with. "You know, you sounded a little crazy there, son."

"I know."

"And I really don't like being called a bastard."

"I get that."

"Or a dumbass."

"I understand. I'm sorry?" I wasn't.

"If I didn't know French, I definitely would've run off."

I smirked. "I know you would've."

"But I did know French."

My smirk was gone. Bastard thought he got one on me. So I did what any mature man would've done in my place.

I ignored him.

It was silent for the longest time, but before I could even hope he left, the voice had the nerve to ask me, "Why are you here, son?"

I scrunched my face up and stared at him incredulously. "Does it look like I volunteered to be locked out here? In my fucking boxers? Handcuffed to a balcony? With some woman I just met last night? Who probably drugged me? In my fucking boxers?"

He laughed. The _abruti _actually laughed. "No. You misunderstood me. I meant, why are you here, in Paris?"

"So you ask me why I'm here, but you don't ask me why I'm _here_?"

"Um. Come again?" Oh, he knew exactly what I was trying to say. I think.

"You didn't ask me why I was out on this balcony."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's clear that you've been locked out."

"But you asked me why I'm in Paris?"

He pretended to think it over. "By golly, I think I did."

"Shouldn't your first concern be to help me? Not wondering why I'm here in the city of love being extremely unloving?"

"You look like the type of guy who didn't want help," he answered me. And I wasn't. This guy was reading me well. Way too well.

I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pounding in my head and find an attitude that didn't result in biting this stranger's head off. I mean, so far he wasn't so bad. He showed me up, which I actually respected him for. And he most definitely didn't need the anger I wanted to throw at Macey. Also, it helped that he was smiling at me with understanding rather than pity or sympathy. The fact that he's smiling period rather than throwing back what I threw at him was amazing.

Once he noticed I was ready for a real conversation, he asked, "What part of the US are you from?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. Around I guess." He nodded, accepting my vague answer.

"I'm from Virginia."

"By Virginia Beach?"

"Nah, way north of that," he smiled, "but I'd like to live in Virginia Beach."

I snorted. "I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Have you ever been there? There are 'no swearing' signs up along the streets," I scrunched up my face. "You know, they don't even have the words 'no profanity here' written on them. It's all just a bunch of symbols in a red circle with a cross through it. The first time I saw one, I think I shouted 'what the fuck'. Because when you look at it, you just gotta say 'what the fuck'. It's just _that_ bizarre. But of course a cop was there. And he fined my ass." I shook my head. "Never going back there again."

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I guess that it's a good thing that I live in Roseville then, where I can use my right to free speech to swear."

"Exactly." I smiled. "Hey, I actually think I've passed through that town once."

"Really?" His eyebrows went up in shock. Well, he should be. Surprised, I mean. It took me five minutes to drive from one end of the other. It's not what most people would consider a memorable town, but for some reason, Roseville stuck in my head.

"Yeah, I travel all over, and I think I went through Roseville at one point in my life when I was heading out to D.C."

"For your job?"

I nodded, not elaborating on purpose.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not ashamed of what I do for a living. Actually, I love my life's work. Fucking love it. I'm my own boss (most of the time), and I get to choose my own hours (mostly at night). But what I love about it the most is the high I get after I complete a job.

Which I suppose arouses the question, what do I do?

Simply put, I'm a thief.

And not the honorable kind that steals to feed his family (if one could consider stealing honorable). Nor am I a professional thief (although I have done jobs for other people). Nah. I'm the worst kind of thief out there: the selfish thief. I not only steal to gain wealth, but also to create chaos.

And why do I like to create trouble?

Well, like I said before, the best part of the job is the high.

Don't need pot when there are museums filled with dead people's gold.

Don't need coke when there's Las Vegas.

Don't need drugs to be dope.

Thieving was like my own brand of heroin.

And that's why I was here in Paris: to steal the _Mona Lisa_.

But even if I did want to tell Solomon all of that, he opened his mouth and said, "I'm a cop. You know, I'm that guy that catches bad guys."

And that's why I don't tell people what I do for a living. Because they'll turn out to be police officers and haul your ass to jail. Or fine you for swearing.

"Lovely," I said when what I really wanted to say was "fuck you".

"It is," he nodded, ignoring the tone of my voice, "I could unhook those handcuffs you're all wound up in."

I looked back at the handcuff, which was already off my wrist because, hello, thief here. In stealing 101, you have to know how to pick a lock or you'd die out on the streets. (Or get caught during a high profile heist.) I'm surprised that Solomon, in fact, didn't notice that earlier when he saw me fiddling with the handcuff.

"Actually, I knew this guy who knew how to pick locks with nothing but a flower stem," I held up both arms and showed him the bobby pin I had found in the dirt. "But I'm not that talented. Just fucking lucky that Macey lost a bobby pin while watering her plants."

Solomon clapped. "I'm impressed, son. They don't teach that in cop school."

"What do they teach?" I inquired, actually interested. If a cop was chasing me, maybe I could use this knowledge to outsmart them.

"They just teach you how to lock crooks up and how to use a gun. Got me a nice set of them. Guns, I mean. Not crooks. Although I did do my share in catching those felons out there."

"Sounds like my type of fun." Except for the fact that I was the crook.

"But you know, son, my work isn't just out on the field." I nodded, wondering where he was going with this. "I work with juvenile cases every other day. And sometimes when the youngsters are looking all lost, sitting in their cells, and waiting for the parents to bail them out, I give them advice. Kinda like a shrink. But a free one."

He looked up at the moon before looking back at me, probably noting that the sky was getting lighter, which meant one hour closer to my heist. My insides tingled in anticipation. "So I think I'm going to grace you with a little bit of my cop wisdom. You know that Louvre you're going to today?"

Now I was intrigued. Not once had we had a successful conversation about Paris, let alone the Louvre (which, by the way, is a world-renowned art museum). How did he know I was putting my plans together in the next twenty-four hours to steal the _Mona Lisa_?

"Well, don't," he paused for effect, making sure I was listening. "Don't go there. I hear something's up. I can't be sure of what exactly is happening or anything, but there are going to be a butt-load of people." He pointed to himself. "People like me. And all of us together in one place can't be good, now can it?"

I wondered how this friendly and open man suddenly turned into a vague and mysterious asshole. A real _salaud_ indeed.

"What are you saying?"

"All I'm saying is that not everything is what it seems to be, _Zach_," he said my name with a long drawl, making sure that I knew that he knew who I was.

What. The. Heck.

My heart dropped to my stomach.

My eyes widened.

No one called me that. Ever.

And then the motherfucker went back into the building, leaving me standing on a psycho woman's balcony with my mouth gaped open, unaware of the amount of time that was passing. Unaware of the early birds that were chirping over my head. Unaware of the Paris streets below and how they were coming to life because people were waking up.

And I was most definitely unaware that the French doors had opened (without a dent of damage) and Macey had joined me outside.

I didn't know if thirty seconds or thirty minutes had passed. All I knew was that during one bizarre second of my life, the only thing I could say, when the birds took their morning crap on my naked torso, when a voice I had heard from a dream not so long ago told me to "watch out", when Macey pushed me over the edge of the balcony's railing, was "shit".

And I was falling.

This wasn't my idea.

**.**

**.**

**Zach died.**

**The End.**

**...just kidding**

**If you don't like Zach now, he'll change. I'll make sure of it. ;]**

**Update Thursday?**

**Review please. And don't fine me for swearing ;]**


	3. Free Fallin'

**Disclaimer: Carter owns the Gallagher Series. I own this plot/story. No copywriting here.**

**A/N: I hope everyone understands that the words written in italics are Zach's dreams. Please R&R.**

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_"I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I'm free faaaallin'."_

_Tom Petty's voice rang through my head as I hurtled toward Earth. The rush of adrenaline made me want to belt from the top of my lungs just how free I thought I was, but I couldn't. Some part of me knew by instinct that if I brought attention to myself, even if I was in the sky, that it would be over. And not just for me, but for my team as well._

_I wasn't free._

_I held out my arms and closed my eyes, pretending to be a bird. The air rushed passed my body, making a loud _swooshing_ sound. If only I could stay up in the clouds for as long as forever. But gravity was a bitch. __Why couldn't the world understand that having your head up in the clouds was better than being down-to-earth? __Literally._

_After I breathed in sweet oxygen and let it out in the form of a sigh, I realized that I couldn't remain in this bubble forever. Not even for a minute. Forcing my eyes open, a great accomplishment for falling at the rate I was going, I looked over to my partner and waited for a signal. For another cue. Another command._

_At a thumb's up, I was supposed to open my parachute and allow myself to drift. I was supposed to stop the wonderful feeling of free falling, which, if continued, would've been suicide. __But what no one knew was that this already was suicide. Instead of drifting back to Earth, we were going to hell. _

_I wish I were a bird, because at the moment, I didn't want to be me._

_I wasn't me as soon as I was pulled into this mission._

_My partner gave me the thumbs up. Now I wasn't just not free falling anymore—_

_I just wasn't free._

**_._**

**Paris, France**

**Early Morning Around Six O'clock**

**July 1, 2011**

Cats. If I were an animal, I would describe myself as a gorgeous, graceful feline. And not just because I'm furry and adorable and like to spit out hairballs, but because I always land on my feet. And there's a saying that goes 'cats always land on their feet'. Basically, what I mean to say is that being a thief is like being a cat.

Hence the title 'cat burglar'.

Except today, I think I was more of a burglar than a cat because I doubt that there's any sort of saying that goes 'cats always land on their asses with their backs covered in bird shit'. But if there was, that's the type of cat that I'd be.

I shook my head and tried to wake myself up from a weird daze. Before I had begun thinking about how I failed as a cat burglar, I had been 'dreaming' again. Only this time, unlike the screwy dreams I had in the past, I think I was actually awake, and instead of feeling happy in the dream, I think I was fucking terrified. Before I could contemplate more on this topic, however, a small group of voices brought me back to the present.

"_Ça __va? Ça va?_" rang through the streets of Paris. I tried to look down upon myself, wondering how to answer the question. Clouds were swirling in circles, I couldn't move, and there was an obnoxious ringing noise in my ear. Was I OK?

I was more than OK. I was freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, I was free faaaallin'.

Which I guess meant that I wasn't OK.

And I especially wasn't OK when I realized that I was the center of attention.

The boss man was going to kill me.

Fuck.

Before I could think of an excuse to sneak away or tell the annoying folks that I hadn't been trying to commit suicide, but that a woman, in fact, had pushed me off her balcony, a sultry, feminine voice spoke up for me, "Can't you see he's all right? You people are wasting your time comforting him instead of arresting the person that is responsible for this."

Which reminded me that this wasn't my fucking fault. It was Macey's. That psycho bitch had drugged and tried to kill me. My gaze found the balcony where I had been shoved out of. However, right below it was an awning that had stopped my fall.

Interesting. Did that mean that Macey wasn't looking to kill me? I mean, there were other ways to achieve that goal other than to push a guy off a balcony only two stories up with an awning underneath. But what was her motive? Why risk it in front of the public?

The only thing that came to my mind was that she knew about my mission and didn't want me to complete it. Because if that fall didn't kill me, she knew that the boss man would.

Of course, that was all theory.

Then I realized that whoever spoke up for me was still talking, so my head lifted up slightly to try to find the voice of reason. The aforementioned voice continued, "And I saw her. It was a woman. She had straight, black hair, which reached her mid-back and her eyes were blue. She also had an athletic build—", well she'd have to be athletic to be strong enough to hurt this guy, "—and she was wearing blue short-shorts and a large, white t-shirt." The voice paused and I imagined the speaker looking menacingly at the crowd. "I suggest you find her."

In America, she could have easily persuaded the people to do so with that speech, but, unfortunately for me, we were in France, which meant that only half of the six a.m. crowd could understand English. Therefore, the stupid half stayed huddled around me while the other half tried to contact the police. Which was fucking crazy. Because the neighbor was a cop, and he still had to be in his room, right?

"Solomon," I coughed, rising up slowly. "Cop. He's a cop."

Gasps rang throughout the crowd. "_Il parle anglais!_"

"_Non,_" I muttered, "_je peux… je peux parler…_" I raised a hand, trying to tell them that I could speak French, but the bizarre thing was, I couldn't.

"I can speak English." I looked up at my savior and saw deep, brown eyes. Like a doe. The edges of those eyes crinkled and I realized that she was smiling. "You certainly took a tumble." She put out her hand. "Are you alright?"

The ringing in my ears stopped and I didn't see objects circling around anymore. Like a cat, I got up to my feet, ignoring the hand she had held up.

"Um," I asked uncertainly, "did I… um, was I just unconscious over there?" Maybe she could confirm whether or not these dreams were beginning to take over reality.

Before she answered me, though, she turned to the remaining few that hadn't gone off to look for Macey, "He's fine!" she shouted. "Uhh… _bien_." She pointed to me, trying to tell the crowd that I was OK.

After the remaining French people had dispersed, she smiled and reached out to my hair. I jerked away, not wanting her to touch me. "You," she began when she realized that by touching me, she was overstepping a line, "you were knocked out for a couple of seconds." She shrugged. "Nothing major."

My dreams were actually still dreams then.

After my shoulders slumped in relief, I asked her a question that I was wondering the whole time, "How'd you know what Macey looked like?"

"Well, at first I only saw you up there. You... up there... wearing boxers." She blushed, reminding me that I was half-naked. "And then I saw her come out. She had this crazy look on her face."

"You tried to warn me," I said in awe, remembering a voice that had yelled 'watch out'.

"I tried to warn you," she agreed, "but you looked like you were hypnotized or something."

And then the woman reached out and tried to touch my fucking head again.

Big doe eyes or not, I snapped, "I'm ok." No one touches me. Ever.

"I just want to make sure you don't have a concussion or anything!" The stupid girl tried to touch me for a third time.

"Fucking stop."

"Please?"

"No."

She reached again but I smacked her wrist away.

"I was knocked out for, like, two seconds," I argued. "What's the big deal?"

"Sorry, Mr. Touchy."

"You're the one being touchy."

She smiled. "Touché." And then I felt a finger lightly touch my scalp.

I had had enough. "Leave my fucking head alone or leave yourself!"

"Fine," she huffed and began stomping away from me. "Have a good day! I hope you _do _have a concussion."

I began to run after her. "Wait!" I called and grabbed her hand, forcing her to stop. "I just…" I ran a hand through my hair, wondering why I was so nervous as I stared into her eyes, "Fuck. I just wanted to say 'thank you'. I didn't need all of that attention from everyone and you got me out of there. And I really didn't mean to snap. I, um…" Where was the suave Zach Goode that I knew and loved?

But luckily she understood what I was trying to say and a smile painted her face once again. "I'm Cammie," she told me and shook the hand that I had grabbed. "And the concussion thing? I didn't mean it."

"I'm—" As soon as she said her name, it was like someone had thrown cold water over me when I was asleep and brought me back to reality. I was a criminal. A crook. I couldn't tell her who I was. I shifted my feet uncomfortably before remembering something else.

"I'm covered in bird shit," I blurted before turning around and sprinting in the opposite direction, not even caring if the only clothes I had with me were my boxers.

Now what was the boss man going to do about this?

**.**

**Paris, France**

**7:45 AM on the Dot**

**July 1, 2011**

"Zach Goode," a man greeted me as I took a seat across from him, finally wearing clothes again (although I won't tell you how I got them). We were seated in a café outside with a perfect view of the Eiffel tower—a great place for tourists to take a break. The café was busy and loud, even at this hour, which was exactly what the man and I both wanted.

"Hey," I replied with fake enthusiasm.

"You're late."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm fifteen minutes early."

"I got here before you," he reminded me. "Therefore, you're late." Asshole.

He looked away from me and began drinking a coffee that he had ordered. In his other hand was his phone, which he was reading instead of paying attention to me. His daily goal was trying to make me feel unimportant, even though I was his go-to guy.

Whatever. Just because he enjoyed showing off his authority by ignoring me didn't mean that I wasn't the best. And no one could deny it. That I was the best, I mean.

Instead of whining for his attention, like a smart thief, I turned to look at the Eiffel tower. Although it was _magnifique_, I was studying the people I could see in my peripheral vision. To the right, a French woman carried a dog in her purse, which was an accessory in itself. Poor thing. She was scolding it for trying to eat the food she was waving in its face. To the left, a man with a handlebar mustache was chomping on a chicken leg. His wife, I noticed, was looking at him in disgust. And straight in front of me was—

I stopped breathing. Straight in front of me was the girl who tried to help me out this morning. Straight in front of me was Cammie.

Or should I say behind me. I whipped back around to face the boss man. If I no longer was looking at her, or anyone else, maybe she wouldn't notice me sitting here just a few tables away. The last thing I needed, as I stared at this asshole, was for her to come over here and introduce herself to the aforementioned asshole.

I began drumming my fingers against the table loudly, hoping to get his attention so we could leave as fast as possible. But all he did was sip his coffee. Bastard.

"Dr. Steve," I interrupted the boss man in mid sip, "if you don't mind, I want to get this job fucking over and done with." But my mind was still on Cammie. And the way she was sitting there, and although I had only glanced at her, I noticed she was sitting there alone. Why was she sitting alone?

He smirked a smirk that could rival mine before putting down his drink with a loud _thump_, regaining my attention. "Goode, is Paris not treating you well?"

"Paris is fine," I lied, thinking about Solomon, the dreams, falling off balconies, and last but not least, Cammie. Who was right behind us dammit. "I just feel like there might be more problems this time around."

He raised an eyebrow. "Problems? What types of problems?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just have a funny feeling that something bad is going to happen." And Solomon's warning rang clear in my head. _Not everything is what it seems to be. _

"Ah," Dr. Steve leaned back into his chair, "intuition." Then he leaned closer into me. "Or is it something else?" Which made me think Dr. Steve knew more than he was letting on. "Are you chickening out? I can't believe this. My front man is chickening out."

"No," I argued. Zach Goode doesn't chicken out of anything. "I just think we should wait until next week or something."

He narrowed his eyes accusingly at me. "You know what, Goode, if I didn't know any better, I'd think that you were trying to get out of this heist."

"What do you mean?" I demanded. "I've been preparing for this for the last month. My sole focus has been the _Mona Lisa_."

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

I shook my head but he ignored me. "You asked me what I meant. What I mean, _Goode_," he sighed exasperatedly, "is that instead of thinking about your job last night and getting a good night's sleep, you went home with some random French girl. Completely wasted. I _mean, _this morning, you woke up on a balcony and took the time to talk to men you have no business of talking to." He raised his hands in the air. "And then you draw even more attention to yourself by falling off said balcony!"

"Oops." I guess I _was _guilty as charged.

"Oops? Oops, Goode? That's what you have to say for yourself? I told you to stay on the DL." He crossed his arms. "I thought this was _your _idea."

"It was."

"I let you choose Paris," he mumbled, "I thought you wanted to go to fuckin' Paris."

"I did. I mean, I still do."

"You were bugging the shit out of me for the last two _years_ to go to Paris."

"Not two years."

"Ok. Three years. Three."

"No." I shook my head, trying to deny that, even though it was probably true.

But he ignored me once again. "It was Paris this and Paris that. And then when I asked you the reason, you couldn't come up with any."

"It was because of the Louvre," I told him what he already knew.

"The Louvre?"

"Yeah, I wanted the _Mona Lisa_."

"Then why didn't you immediately respond in the first place?"

"I wasn't preprared."

"Wasn't prepared?" Why was this guy repeating everything that I was saying?

"I didn't think you'd agree after—"

"The last fucking three years," he cut me off.

"Yup," I answered, defeated.

"Then why give it up now?" he studied at me, trying to get me to break. "We're finally here. On _your _terms. Was it that cop? Was it because he told you not everything is what it seemed to be."

Ok, boss man or no, I was beginning to get annoyed. "Will you stop spying on me?" I yelled at him, but then remembered that we weren't alone. I lowered my voice before informing him, "I've been with you for three years! Do you not trust me?" How does he always hear my conversations? The only article of clothing I was wearing that morning was my boxers. My boxers!

He bugged my fucking boxers!

"I don't." Dr. Steve said curtly. "I thought that was the first rule, Goode. I know I taught you the first rule. The life of a criminal is a life where you don't trust anyone. You don't trust your so-called friends. You don't even trust me. The only person you have there is yourself."

"But to me, it seems like I'm working for you."

"You could walk away if you wanted."

"That's a lie."

He paused and thought it over. "You're right. You could walk away if you wanted, fucked up beyond recognition."

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why?'"

"Why am I so important to you? Why don't you give me a choice? Everyone else does one job for you and they're free." They're freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. They're free faaaallin'. Enough of that. "Why?"

He finally relaxed for the first time since I saw him today. "You know what, Goode? I have this story to tell you. It's about a young man that once upon a time had come to see me when he had no place else to turned to. When I looked at him, when everyone looked at, and even when _he _looked at himself, we all saw a nobody. He was just some sorry ass out of God knows where. He barely remembered his name, much less the place he came from. He would've died that night too if I didn't swoop in to the rescue." I fell silent, knowing the story and feeling bad that I had ever questioned Dr. Steve. "And do you know who this guy is?"

"It's me."

"That's right. That sorry dumbass was you," he paused before saying, "And who shaped you up?"

"You," I muttered.

"Who turned you into the best thief known to man?"

"You did."

"And who will kick your ass if your loyalty wavers?"

Before I could answer with a robotic 'you' once again, a voice interrupted our not-so-friendly conversation, "So I see you cleaned that bird shit off of you. And put on clothes. Nice."

I looked up and stared at a certain Cammie. Her big eyes were bright and excited to see me. Not good. "What are you doing here?" I snapped, hoping my behavior will get her to leave. She wasn't safe if Dr. Steve knew who she was.

"I—" she stumbled. "I just wanted to say 'hi'."

"Hi," I answered curtly, pretending not to notice her when the only thing I _could_ notice was her. She wore a white, flowy sundress that came up to her mid-thigh. Four-inch-wedges accentuated her legs and made her taller than the last time I saw her. Her hair was loose and wavy, and she wore the slightest hint of make up.

"Are you waiting for someone?" I turned to look at the speaker, but this time it wasn't Cammie. It was Dr. Steve.

Fuck.

She smoothed her dress, a little uncomfortable under his gaze.

"It's just that you looked a little too dressed up to be sitting by yourself," Dr. Steve continued, revealing that he knew Cammie was here all along.

"Yeah," she answered, slowly gaining more confidence, "I'm waiting for my… my boyfriend." She had a boyfriend? Why was she sitting alone if she had a boyfriend?

"Well maybe you should go back to waiting," I responded, and she flinched at the words.

"Look, man," she began angrily, "I don't know who you think you are, but seeing as I got your ass out of there earlier, I kind of expect you to be a little bit more grateful."

Without thinking about how Dr. Steve would react, I apologized. I fucking apologized. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"He just doesn't want you to talk to me, I think," the boss man spoke for me. "So how do you know my boy, darling?"

Maybe she understood how big of a creep Dr. Steve was because she answered, "I'm just here to make sure—" she trailed off, looking at me for a name.

"Zach," I blurted without thinking. Crap. Dr. Steve was going to give hell to me now.

"I'm just making sure Zach here was ok. That's it. You know, he fell from a balcony. Two floors up." As if you had to remind me.

Dr. Steve smirked. "_Zach_," it was weird hearing my first name from his lips, "are you ok?"

"I'm great."

Cammie stood there awkwardly, not sure what to say anymore.

"Well, I'm Cammie." _Fuck_. Out of all the things to say, she shouldn't have said _that_.

"Hello, Cammie," Dr. Steve smiled slyly. "I'm Dr. Steve. It's quite excellent to meet you."

"Ok, well," she said before scurrying off. "I guess I'll be going now. Bye, Zach. I'm glad you're great."

I let out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding, but what Dr. Steve said next made me hold it once again. "So that was Cammie."

I nodded, hoping he would forget her.

"Cammie Morgan."

Oh shit. I wasn't sure what Cammie's full name was, but somehow, Dr. Steve knew**.**

Not good. Doe eyes was fucked.

**.**

**.**

**So now we meet Cammie and know a little bit more about Zach's past.**

**Please review. Even if you hate it. Bad news is better than no news?**

**Update next Saturday?**


	4. The SetUp

**Disclaimor: Carter owns the Gallagher Series. I own this story/plot.**

**Hi! So this chapter is a little shorter than the others, but since I'm behind on updating because of school and stuff, I decided to just throw this out there. All errors are mine and there may possibly be more than usual in this chapter... because I'm lazy. R&R.**

**.**

**.**

_Click. Click._

_My eyes flickered from the bag in my hands to the alarm clock sitting beside my bed. One hundred and twenty-three __seconds had passed since I had gathered everything I couldn't survive without._

_Thump. Thump._

_My __heartbeat reached to my ears, rivaling the sound of the steady clicking of the aforementioned clock. Whether it was fear, adrenaline, or the fact that I had sprinted up to my room that kept my heart rate up, it didn't matter. I just knew that I had to ignore it._

_Knock. Knock._

_My head shot up in surprise at the sound coming from my window, and I took off the tie around my neck, preparing it as a weapon. One hundred and forty-five seconds had passed since I had broken into my own room. One hundred and forty seconds had passed since I had forgotten to close my window._

_Thump. Thump._

_My feet padded silently toward the window, ready to push whoever was following me out of it. I stilled when I saw two silhouettes of hands slip through the crack, and without a huge effort, the window slid up._

"_Hey," I heard a feminine voice whisper softly, and the breath I didn't even know I was holding was let out._

_I tossed the tie I was fisting onto my bed before holding out my hand to help the person up, making sure the smooth fabric of her prom dress didn't get caught in the window. "It's you," I greeted sadly. Normally it would make my day to see her, but today I wanted the exact opposite. To see her, I mean. "What are you doing here?"_

"_I just…" she paused as she swooped a hand threw her hairsprayed curls, and I chuckled inwardly because I knew where she had learned that nervous gesture from, "…you never picked me up."_

_I looked down at the tux I had rented and began taking off the blazer. "Sorry. I tried to call you."_

_She ignored my bullshit excuse. Even if it was true, it was still a shitty thing to do. _

_"So you're leaving," she said matter-of-factly, looking at the backpack in my arms and the clothes and food thrown into it._

_I raised my eyebrows in surprise, wondering how she could be so nonchalant about me ditching her on prom night, but at the same time, completely grateful. "Yes," I mumbled._

"_Again."_

Yes, again_, I thought, but didn't say it aloud._

_I slung my bag over my shoulder before leaning in to kiss the top of her head.__ I didn't want to see her face and the mask of disappointment she undoubtedly wore. _

_I'm a coward and an asshole._

_But before I could leave without saying anything, she piped up, "Will I see you again?"_

_Half my leg was out of the __windowsill before I answered, "This definitely isn't good-bye."_

_Thud. Thud._

_My feet hit the ground. High school was over. _

_It was time to start a new life._

**.**

**Paris, France (Louvre)**

**Ten O'clock in the Morning**

**July 1, 2011**

"It looks like he's leaving her."

I flipped my head around to see a certain Cammie Morgan standing next to me. "Huh?" I greeted stupidly, wondering if she could read my mind. The memory of ditching prom night hit me randomly, and now I was wondering if I had kept my promise to that faceless girl (sometimes my past is a little jumbled together). Leaving someone like that, even though I don't remember it clearly, wasn't one of my best moments, and I didn't want Doe Eyes to be able to use her apparent magic ability to figure that out.

But instead of revealing some crazy psychic power, she nodded to a painting I was supposedly viewing when, instead, I had been checking all of the security detail in the Louvre. "The colors are all bright and happy," she examined, "but there's something off about the woman's face." I leaned in closer toward the meticulous brush work and saw a hint of sadness in her tight smile. "And the man," Cammie continued, "he's physically there, but his eyes look like he's a million miles off."

Something in her voice made me turn back around to look at her. From her expression on her face, it looked as if the painting's meaning was more personal than she was letting on.

Well, I most definitely didn't want to go digging through that shit.

"Are you stalking me?" I blurted, trying to lighten the mood.

Her frown turned into a smile. "If I were stalking you, trust me when I say that you wouldn't know it."

"Ha. You really think that you can get anything past this guy?" I pointed to myself and smirked. "Just so you know, I'm the shit."

"Just so _you _know, the shit didn't know I was here until I was," she pretended to look around, "here."

I sighed and crossed my arms. "Nicely played," I grumbled, even though I totally knew she was there. I mean, I was considered one of the best thieves for several reasons and noticing stalkerish women, especially Doe Eyes, it seems, was one of them.

"So why are you here?" she asked me.

I gestured to the painting I had pretended to be interpreting, "Why am I fucking here?" I laughed. "Art is why I'm fucking here. But the better question, Doe Eyes, is why are you here?"

"Doe Eyes?" She placed her hands to her hips.

"Yup, you have the biggest fucking brown eyes I've ever seen," I told her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world (which it was). "Like a girly Bambi." I rolled the name around in my mouth a little. "Bambi. B-b-bambi. I like Bambi. How 'bout I call you Bambi from now on?"

"You know, most people give me the nickname Cam."

I smirked. "Well, _Cam_," I spit out her name, "most people are fucking dull."

"Well, _Zach_, I don't like Bambi."

I snapped my fingers. "You're right. Doe Eyes is way better. I mean, wasn't Bambi a dude?"

"Yup."

"Cool."

"Uh-huh."

"I like the way you think, Doe Eyes."

"Just kidding. I like Bambi better."

_Women. They need to make up their fucking minds._

But apparently I said that aloud because she rolled her eyes before shuffling her feet and said, "I'm waiting for my boyfriend."

"What?"

"That's why I'm here," she replied exasperately. "You asked me earlier why I'm here. Although art is great, I'm really just waiting for my boyfriend."

"He ditched you after breakfast?"

"More like he never showed up," she muttered.

I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering how a guy could bring a girl all the way to France to stand her up. I was an asshole (because according to a random memory I had suddenly, I had ditched my girlfriend on prom night), but I guess I now knew someone who was a bigger asshole than me. Cool.

As if reading my mind, she said, "It's not his fault. Sometimes he just disappears like that." Which explains her behavior toward that painting. "And he gets in a lot of trouble... and I guess I'm just pissed because I'm really worried about him."

Doe Eyes turned away and returned her attention to the painting. I watched as her cheerfulness slowly faded into the same expression as the woman in the art.

Chicks. Everything made them so fucking emotional, even a stupid painting. And especially their dumbass boyfriends.

Before I could pretend to be the sensitive, caring guy that I wasn't, a low voice mumbled into my ear.

"Goode," Dr. Steve said through an earpiece. "Are you in position?" I adjusted the sound of the mic before I checked out my surroundings. Two cameras were searching the room in random order and a police officer was guarding the door. Across from the aforementioned door was an arc that led into another room in the Louvre. That room contained the _Mona Lisa_. And that room had four cameras and triple the security.

I was supposed to be in that room. Very soon.

I looked up casually to the ceiling, as if I were studying to the ornate architect before looking back at the painting, signaling a 'yes, I'm in position'. I didn't know where Dr. Steve was, but I knew he could see that.

"Well, I'm off to bigger and better things," I told Cammie, and although she wasn't listening, I took my leave anyways.

Everything was going to plan. In sixty seconds, the surveillance cameras in the _Mona Lisa _room would be jammed, and instead of the twelve seconds when all four of the cameras didn't face the _Mona Lisa_, it would be five minutes. And instead of stealing the _Mona Lisa _in front of hundreds of witnesses, my team was going to evacuate the building with the use of heavy yet unharmful smoke bombs.

I had planned everything perfectly.

Before I could subtly move to the other room, however, a firm hand tapped me on the shoulder. "_Excusez-moi, monsieur._" I whirled around and found myself facing a cop. The very same cop that disappeared when I fell from a balcony only moments after telling me that 'not everything is what it seems to be'. As surreptitiously as I could, I turned off the mic so Dr. Steve wouldn't hear our conversation.

"Solomon."

"Zach.

"Don't call me that," I nearly growled.

"What should I call you then?" He cocked his head.

"Nothing," I hissed. "Because I never gave you my fucking name."

"So you're not Zach."

I shook my head. "Never met one of those in my life."

"Ah, well, son," Solomon told me, "when you do see a guy name _Zach Goode_, tell him that he is the biggest dumbass on the planet who should listen to a clever cop's advice."

"I can certainly do that, sir."

"Also, see that guy that looks like a hobo," he pointed to a man with ratty clothes and a Dumbledore beard. "No one can grow a beard that long. He's a fake."

Huh. I probably should've noticed that. "That's funny and all, but what does that have to do with Goode?"

As always, he ignored my question. "Listen, Zach," Solomon voice became grave, "I'm here in Paris for a reason, and it's not for the to-die-for fashion. No, I came here because I heard someone is going to steal the _Mona Lisa_."

My eyes widened. How did he know?

"I know, you're shocked, right?" He shook his head. "Well, I am too. Who has the balls and the brains to steal the _Mona Lisa_? But that's not the point. The point is that I know the criminal mastermind behind the scheme, and I know that he won't succeed. Do you wanna know why?" He stepped closer, making sure I was listening. Why was this man so damn cryptic all the time? "Because this is a setup."

"What's a setup?"

"The smoke bombs that _your _team of crooks is going to pull off."

I swear, a fly could buzz in my mouth and I wouldn't even notice. How much did this guy know of me?

"Oh, and Zach, that hobo over there isn't what he seems to be either."

"Ok?"

"He's an assasinator."

"Getting worse."

"And he was hired to kill you."

"Fuck."

**.**

**Paris, France (Louvre)**

**10:10 A.M. Five Seconds Before the Smoke Bomb.**

**July 1, 2011**

Bullshit. Solomon was a bullshitter. You can _not_ bullshit a bullshitter. And that's exactly what that cop was doing. He was trying to scare me out of doing my job.

Well it ain't gunna fucking work.

Well, at least it wasn't working until I put my earpiece back on and tried to contact Dr. Steve, who wasn't answering any calls (but that could just mean that he wasn't in the position to speak right now). It wasn't working until I noticed that the hobo was looking subtly at me every now and then. And it especially wasn't working until I saw the aforementioned hobo playing with his beard.

He's totally hiding a pistol in there.

Damn. Solomon really knew how to make a guy paranoid.

Ignoring my new superstitions, I crept closer and closer to the _Mona Lisa_, ready to set off one of the few smoke bombs so I could swap out the _Mona Lisa_. As I waited for the signal to 'bomb', my hand was in my back pocket and my fingers grasped the circumference of the bomb before I heard footsteps that were too dainty to be my team's walk up besides me.

Please don't be Doe Eyes.

Please don't be Doe Eyes.

Please don't be Doe Eyes.

It was fucking Doe Eyes.

"Zach!" she cried out, bringing attention to us. Shit. Why the hell did I tell her _that_ name?

I looked up at the cameras and already noticed that they had stopped moving. I now had a blind spot, but I was wasting it talking to Cammie.

"What the fuck do you want?" You can attract more bees with honey than with vinegar. So hopefully, I can disgust her with some of my famous vinegar.

But for some reason, I wasn't fazing her like earlier because she just kept talking. Something about the _Mona Lisa_. At other times (like earlier), I totally would've listened to her ramble, but now just wasn't it.

"Look, I really like your company," I cut her off.

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I'm sensing a 'but'."

"—but now you should probably leave."

"Why?"

"In about five seconds, you're really not going to want to stand there," I warned.

_Five_.

She didn't budge.

_Four._

She didn't move.

_Three._

She stood still.

_Two_.

She remained frozen.

_One._

She was still fucking there.

At zero, Dr. Steve yelled out the command 'now', trying to get us all to drop our smoke bombs, which caused panic to spread throughout my face.

But I couldn't with Doe Eyes there. She would figure it all out (even though she'd figure it out as soon as the _Mona Lisa _was gone but at least I wouldn't have to see her face).

"Get the fuck out of here," I hissed one last time as I saw the smoke begin to filter into this room. The fire alarms went out and stampedes of people ran out of the museum.

Before she could comment, though, my heart skipped a beat. And not one of those romantic heart skipping, but it was fear. As people began to filter out, one person didn't move with them. Instead, that one person with a Dumbledore beard found their way behind Cammie.

And that one person held up a gun over her shoulder, aiming at my head.

If I had thrown the smoke bomb like everyone else, I wouldn't have even seen this assassinator coming.

I was set up.

**.**

**.**

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**Update next week?**

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